I remember
by LostinFairyTales
Summary: Although her life no longer has even a hint of magic, Hannah cannot help but dream of a man whose very destiny was entwined with it.
1. December 1817

A faint candlelit glow flickered on the walls, casting brief pools of light onto the staircase. Hannah tentatively placed a foot on each step as she ascended from light into darkness. Little warmth was provided from the dwindling candle and Hannah felt herself give an involuntary shiver when she reached the final step; one that shook the very ridges of her spine.

What was it her Ma had used to say? Something about how a sudden shiver was said to be from someone walking on the place that was to be your grave. [1]

Hannah shook her head as if to rid herself of such morbid musings. From the corner of her eye, she caught a slight movement amongst the shadows around her. Without even willing it, she found herself expecting him to appear, the familiar musky scent of tobacco and horses almost tangible. Hannah whirled around, the candle flickering; she was alone. Again, quite unwillingly, she felt her heart sink ever so slightly. Her straying thoughts may well have consumed her, were it not for the sudden cawing that echoed in the darkness, rousing her from her motionless. With a start, Hannah made her way to the attic with some haste. [2] The attic-turned-servant-quarter was mostly sparse, with little possessions aside from the two beds and Hannah's small trunk. It was shrouded in the black of night too, and she kept her candle alight.

Her footsteps were gentle upon the floorboards as the familiar tug of fatigue crept over her. She sank onto the woollen blanket before slowly resting back into the stiff mattress.

Between the rafters overhead, Hannah could discern the bruised sky through the glass roof. Flecks of snow mottled the glass, blocking out more light as Hannah gazed up. She quickly stifled the yawn that made her jaw shudder, lest she woke the snoring housekeeper, whose own bed was only a few yards away. [3]

Rolling onto her side, she attempted to make herself comfortable, smoothing her hands along her nightdress-only to find that it was her scullery apron. Slightly ashen at the thought of almost falling asleep in her uniform, even if there were no witnesses, Hannah tugged out the nightdress from beneath her pillow and blew out the candle. The darkness formed an opaque screen, and she quickly slipped her nightdress on over her undergarments.

Settled properly in bed now, Hannah tried to ignore the briar-like scratch of the blankets against her arms. The darkness stole over her, weary eyelids draping shut. In the instant that she was to fall asleep, a thought suddenly came to mind; as they are prone to do when one is on the edge of slumber. This would be the first Christmas in seventeen years spend without the company of Mr Norrell's other servants. In the stillness she heard the echo of Dido and Lucy's whisperings as they anticipated the midnight mass bell. Her lips spiralled into a fond smile: how she missed them keeping her up now! For all their frivolous behaviour during the Christmas season, Hannah could not deny the absence that she felt for them and her other fellows from below the stairs of Hurtfew Abbey and Hanover Square.

Yet there was one who she missed more than anyone: who had known her longest of all, who kept her secrets as she had his.

John Childermass.

Hannah knew that he was far from Yorkshire-she'd heard rumours at the market of two men, one whose body was a book and the other tasked with deciphering it. From the description she'd heard of the two, the latter Hannah was certain could only be Childermass; she knew well that he could not resist the lure of magic. It was interwoven into his destiny, a fact that she'd long accepted. Still, Hannah could not deny the ache that made her insides curl and twist like decaying leaves at the undeniable likelihood never seeing the man again. She had grown so used to Childermass and his shadowy ways, the knowing smirks, shuffle of those queer cards of his, the minute quirks in his facial features that she could translate into his unspoken words. Now he was but a memory: one that her mind lingered upon too long.

A small smile momentarily lifted her spirits at the recollection of Childermass' gruff, Yorkshire tinged pronunciation of French as he had read the cards aloud to her. The lure grew steadily stronger again, tugging at her consciousness, inescapable now. Hannah felt herself succumb, her thoughts a whirlwind that grew hazier. As she fell to dreaming, another guttural caw pierced the night, the sound ringing in her ears...

[1] The saying comes from a folk legend, and in medieval times burial sites were often pre-determined. Thus, many spoke the saying with the belief that someone genuinely was walking upon their future grave.

[2] Whilst living on the streets, Hannah had once woken to find a bird nestled in her hair, that then proceeded to peck at her. Needless to say, she has feared birds ever since.

[3] Despite the deceiving snores, Mrs Jones was an incredibly light sleeper and could be stirred by the slightest of noises. She also had a foul temper if disturbed in the night, as Hannah had regretfully discovered during her first fortnight.


	2. December 1800

Flurries of snow were scattered to the bitter breeze, her vision somewhat blurred as Hannah hurried across the courtyard. Milk slopped precariously close to the edge of the pail that was clutched to her chest, tightly grasped by her numbing fingers as she navigated her way along the stone; yearning for the warmth of indoors but wary of the treacherous black ice. Upon the fence was a bird, crow or raven she could not determine, cawing vulgarly at her-an omen perhaps.

She dismissed the thought as she reached the back door, not quite naïve enough to attempt turning the handle with the milk in hand. The pail carefully set down beside her worn-down shoes, she leant up to take hold of the dark handle upon the wooden door. Pressing down with as much might as her weary self could manage, the door unlocked, wafts of the fire's heat slipping out through widening gap as she pushed the door back. Hannah transferred the pail from the step to the wide table in the middle of the kitchen; the fire had never appeared so appealing as it had done then to her frigid little body. But a cool breeze swept in behind her, reminding Hannah of the still open back door. She pushed it to, spotting the melting flecks of snow that she'd trodden in. That would never do- she could not afford to set up the butler's bristles. [1]

Hannah opened up a nearby cupboard in search of a broom. Footsteps were approaching, the unmistakable neat steps of Jeremy. Her fingers had not yet warmed, and in her haste several cleaning items clattered to the floor.

The door to the stairway swung open, and Hannah whirled around. Jeremy did not seem to even glance at the disorder at her feet. His eyes, as cold as the outdoors, were fixated upon her as he stormed [2] across the kitchen, his sour features twisted into a look of utter abhorrence.

"Where is the silver?" He demanded.

Hannah frowned, thrown by the suddenness of the question as she hurriedly tried to recollect the last time she'd cleaned the silver and where she had placed it.

"I-I do not know sir," She stammered as a hand grabbed her arm.

"Canterbury tales, you lying wench! Jeremy exclaimed, "You wait until the master hears of this."

"Hears of what?"

She received a boxing of her ears for that, her head instinctively recoiling as the stiff feel of his hand reverberated through her.

Jeremy's fingers were an unbreakable clamp as he dragged her out in the stairway, before roughly pushing her up the steps, his hand kept wrapped around her shoulder. All the while, Jeremy muttered how the master would see her deceit as proof of her thieving ways and relishing in the whipping that he would give her.

Her heart ricocheted against her ribs as Hannah was forced farther down the ornate hallway to a panelled door, which the butler sharply rapped upon.

"Come in, Jeremy," The aged voice of their master called from inside the parlour.

Never releasing his clutch, Jeremy opened the door and they entered.

"The silver cannot be found sir-I believe that she has stolen it," Jeremy spat, prodding Hannah forward to the centre of the room. She stumbled forward, her eyes sweeping across the room, drawn to the stranger in their midst. He was stood nearby her master, in clothes as outdated as the room's furnishings. With his ragged hair and ancient clothing, he was as dark as the birds outside had been.

Yet Hannah could not shake the sense that he was queerly familiar, though she knew not where she had seen him before.

Jeremy's words snapped Hannah from her wonderings-"The chit pick-pocketed upon the streets-it is not much of a surprize that she would betray you so, sir. She ought to be dismissed."

The prospect of such was enough for Hannah's fear struck tongue to garble out a protest, "I have done nought wrong! Honest sir, I recall seeing the silver but two days ago."

Her master seemed to only address Jeremy, the lines upon his face uncertain as he slowly pondered, "It would be unChristian to turn her out so near to Christmas time..."

Jeremy then suggested that instead she must be severely punished, so that she would never consider such thievery again.

The fear in Hannah's chest only intensified as their master gave an absent nod of his head in agreement.

From the corner of her eye, Hannah glimpsed a flash of leather. She dared not speak now, dared not even breathe as she anticipated the whip. A sudden resentment at the injustice and a desire to conceal her pain burnt fervently inside her; though she felt herself trembling uncontrollably.

Her gaze flitted about wildly, once again landing upon the stranger. He was but a shadow now, and although his face was congealed behind ragged locks as he looked at something upon the desk, Hannah got the peculiar sensation that he was somehow observing her.

There was a crack in the air-not of the whip, but of a low voice she did not recognise.

"Forgive the interruption, Mr Ramsbury, but this woman is innocent. The silver has simply been misplaced."

"Oh?" Jeremy sneered, and from behind her Hannah could hear his fingers brandishing the whip.

"How could you possibly know that?" Her master, Ramsbury, enquired; not displeased as his butler was, but instead rather bemused.

The shadowy man slid his fingers along the desk, and held up several rectangular pieces of cardboard, similar in shape to that of playing cards. Even from a distance, Hannah could faintly see the ink that came through onto their backs.

He then beckoned her master to the table, and laid the cards out. They spoke in low tones, barely audible to her, but the words were mostly in a language that she knew was not English. She understood nothing of what was said or had occurred, but judging by the appeased expression of her master when he turned to face her, Hannah knew that somehow her innocence had been convinced of.

"It seems that this man is right, for these cards of the future say so," Mr Ramsbury said, his old voice firm yet wondrous. "You both may return to your duties. Jeremy, would you be so kind as to check the behind the sink in the kitchen? I believe the silver shall be found there."

Hannah mumbled a thank you with a slight curtsey, directed at the stranger more than her master, before hurrying from the room.

Once out of sight, she paused in the hallway. The kitchen beckoned- she had a mess to tidy and curiosity to satisfy over if the silver really was behind the sink. Yet a wiser whisper told her to avoid Jeremy, but it could not battle with her piqued curiosity.

Lightly pacing down the stone stairs to the kitchen, Hannah slipped inside and over to the fallen articles. She put them back as silently as possible, though the slight noises were not audible over Jeremy's incensed mutterings. A brief glance at the sink confirmed the cards had been correct: in Jeremy's hands was most of the silver, the remainder just visible behind the pipes.

As quiet as she was, the butler had sensed her presence, suddenly turning upon her. His words were almost in incomprehensible as he flew at her. Hannah could not resist the hands that grabbed her again, his incense strengthening him as he shoved her towards the door.

The bitter bite of the wind coursed through her as she was pushed with a lurch into the courtyard. Her feet slid as she tried to regain her balance and she fell, smacking into the iced over cobbles.

"You will pay for that, witch," Jeremy hissed, fingers tightly winding around the loose strands of her hair that spilled into her shoulders, forcing her head down. From the edge of her gaze, she watched beads of blood spill onto the clear surface.

"Peculiar, is it not, that the silver should end up behind the sink?" The sound of that coarse voice made her head jerk, though she caught only the sight of boots passing through the gate into the courtyard.

"She must have put it there as a hiding place, hoping to sell it later," Jeremy replied, having regained the careful manner of a butler.

"Oh, is that so? Funny, as my cards say it was moved, but by you sir-so that you could punish her. In fact, I do not believe it was your intention to have her dismissed; that was merely a ploy to force your master to agree to a severe punishment."

"Lies!" Came Jeremy's splutter, "How could pieces of card tell you such?"

"'Tis the truth. I see it in your face. Now, how about you and I make a deal?" The knowing voice lost its mocking edge, growing even firmer, "You tell your master that your housemaid has found a more...agreeable housemaid position in the service of Gilbert Norrell, and I shall not tell your master of your intentions."

There was a moment's silence.

"I agree."

Hannah felt herself be released, her heart still throbbing relentlessly. Joints aching, she forced herself to her feet, her gaze trailing down her bloodied self.

"Go clean yourself up, and collect your belongings, miss," The stranger instructed.

Bewilderment and pain clouded her thoughts; all Hannah could do was comply.

When she returned, a little steadier upon her feet, with her few possessions tucked into her apron pockets, Hannah sensed that something had occurred in her absence. The stranger and butler were still stood facing one another, yet the air was heavy with tension.

"Come along."

Hannah crossed the courtyard, the man falling into step beside her. Out of habit, she closed the gate behind her without a glance back. Although she knew nothing of this shadowy man she now followed after, Hannah found that she had already imparted her trust to him.

They walked down the street; Hannah knew not where and constantly glanced at the man to follow his lead. Neither spoke until they had turned the corner, her resolution building.

"Pardon me sir, but are you Mr Norrell?

She could feel his eyes upon her from his great height, a scoff of laughter like a rumble of thunder sounding.

"Nay, lass, I am not. I am his man of business, in his service as you now are," There was a pause before he added, as though able to guess her next question, "Do not worry, he shall not refuse you-there has been a vacancy for a housemaid for some weeks now."

The man of business suddenly halted, Hannah almost stepping out onto the road as a carriage rushed past.

"May I ask what is your name then sir?" She called as they crossed the street.

"Childermass-and there will be none of that now."

"Pardon?"

"Calling me sir," Hannah could hear the wry smirk as he spoke, "It always vexed me when I first begun, still does now somewhat, having to call everyone 'sir'. Grovelling is ill suited to those who have relied upon themselves."

"You were a pickpocket too?" She realised, catching herself about to add a 'sir'.

Childermass affirmed that he had been once, before enquiring of her own name.

"Hannah," She replied, noting that they appeared to be approaching the Lion and Lamb inn.

Childermass led her to the stables. In the penultimate stable was a black horse, waiting in a rather unruly manner. Recognition seized her; such a horse had passed her when she was purchasing the milk. She recalled musing the likeness of the beast and it's rider, the very man who was now opening up the stable door.

The horse came towards her and she raised her head to look up at Childermass, who had got onto the creature with ease. She confessed that she had never ridden a horse before, observing that beneath his hair a dark ring was forming around one eye.

"It is near fourteen miles to Hurtfew Abbey, and you are neither in a suitable condition nor season to walk such a distance."

A hand was outstretched to her, and Hannah took it. Callous skin met hers, his grip firm enough to keep hold of her, yet not tight enough to be painful. Childermass' features were rigid as he helped her up, but Hannah saw the brief exposure of a pained expression. Settling in her seat upon the horse's back, Hannah delicately laid her arms around his middle as his back and shoulders gave a slight writhe.

The horse had ascended into a quickening trot, and as Hannah watched the buildings pass by, a thought slowly crept into her mind.

Realising what he had done for her, after proving her innocence and freeing her from the tyrannous butler, Hannah parted her lips to thank him. But she could not find the words to express her gratitude or question why he had gone to such lengths for her. The unspoken words hung between them, and Hannah knew it was something she may never be able to voice to him, leaving her irrevocably indebted to him- whether Childermass wished her to be or not.

[1] To set up someone's bristles refers to angering them. The butler had made his dislike of Hannah evident in her struggles to swiftly adapt to work as a housemaid.

[2] As a well respected butler, Jeremy's version of storming retained his usual precision. Nonetheless, Hannah knew to be greatly concerned.


	3. March 1803

A fire was still burning in the kitchen, and Hannah was glad of it. Despite the first signs of spring blossoming in the form of buds upon the skeletal trees that surrounded Hurtfew Abbey, the building remained cold as ever. It was hardly surprising that Mr Norrell kept requesting she lit the fire in his library, which was the only room upstairs that could be vaguely considered warm, aside from the master's bedroom; on the rare occasion that he slept in it.

She hadn't quite grown used to the cold after three years, but Hannah had grown used to Mr Norrell's somewhat reserved and scholarly tendencies, and his complete lack of attention to any servant expect from his man of business.

Hannah reached the oven, where faint wisps of smoke vanished up the chimney. Pressed to the stone tiles, her knees chilled through her stockings as she raised her blueish hands, feeling the warm air begin to heat her skin. She did not mind inhaling the acrid scent; ashes already clung to her from cleaning out the library fireplace. Before her eyes, the flames flickered and danced in the shades of fallen leaves.

From behind her came the scrape of wood against stone and a languid movement of someone seating themselves. Hannah did not need to turn her head, instead listening to the slow exhale that came after filling his pipe with tobacco. She supposed that it would be courteous to enquire about his day, and Hannah could not deny that she longed to hear of wherever he had travelled to this time, yet she sensed his desire to simply sit. Both remained in a silence that was by no means uncomfortable but instead simply undisturbed.

The heat from the fire had fully swept over Hannah when she heard the flicker of cards. It was a sound that she had often heard when Childermass gained a brief respite from his attending to their master's business. Their nature, and the glimpse that she had caught of the cards, only furthered Hannah's interest, and she looked over her shoulder to watch as he laid them down upon the table with the utmost care. From her knelt position, all that was visible was the edge of the cards and faint inky lines; Hannah wondered what could be contained inside such commonplace materials to be able to reveal such things as the butler's deceit several years earlier. But she did not voice such musings aloud, and whatever preoccupied Childermass' mind remained unspoken.

The stillness around them was broken by a new voice, that of the footman, Davey. His burly figure peered around the doorframe, his head facing away from Hannah. "Mr Childermass? Mr Norrell is asking for you."

For a moment, Childermass remained seated. His forefinger tapped absently at the edge a card; he was deliberating over something. A moment later and he rose. The cards remained spread upon the table.

As the mens' footsteps faded, Hannah remained motionless, battling with her ill-fated curiosity. She stood up, suddenly cooler, and scurried over to the table. Her eyes scanned over each card before focusing on one in particular. Upon closer inspection, Hannah realised that they had been copied, onto ancient scraps of paper, words from the reverse bleeding onto the peculiar drawings.

She inhaled, to discover that the air felt denser, as though entwined with something more. Her chest constricted, and Hannah half-stumbled, half-collapsed into the chair. Although her gaze had become an unfocused blur, the cards demanded her attention. Trembling fingers crept up towards the cards; she needed something physical to latch onto.

The card that she clutched bore XVIII at the top, the image of a moon and creatures that Hannah presumed to be dogs coming to the forefront of her still unsteady vision. Beneath, letters were adorned, and her lips slowly moved to soundlessly form them.

A roar erupted from the fireplace, the sudden tumult breaking her focus and the card slipped from her grasp. The sight of a gaunt figure in the doorway caused Hannah to exhale the air that had been trapped in her lungs.

Hannah swiftly rose from the chair, feeling her face begin to burn as though she was beside the fire again. "I apologise sir-I had the queerest of sensations, I had to sit; it was not my intention to touch the card..."  
Bowing her head, she darted back, awaiting the reprimand for touching such personal objects as he strode towards. Childermass merely gave an inclination of his head; he knew something that she did not and her embarrassment flickered into frustration at his silence.  
"Do you remember the first thing I told you when you came here?"  
Hannah nodded, quoting his exact words, "'Not to go to the library unless accompanied by myself or Mr Norrell."  
"Precisely," Childermass said, sitting down at the chair that had been moved to be closer to another farther down the table. The dim candlelit and flames unveiled a slight sardonic curve of his lips, though his tone remained grave as he slid the cards down towards him. "Yet I cannot recall you asking for me to show you when Mr Norrell sent a note about the fireplace?"  
"Oh. No, sir-Mr Childermass," Hannah said, unable to hide her confusion at why he should be reprimanding her on this particular point, though she felt an explanation was owed. "You see, I have been able to find my way these last few months- often you are busy, and I do not wish to disturb you; the first few times I kept finding myself back to the pantry, but eventually I found myself there, and have done ever since."  
His expressionless gaze remained bored into her, stood frozen in place, just close enough to feel a glimmer of heat from the fire. Although tentative, Hannah did not feel any fear, nor the dread that she had experienced in the presence of Jeremy; she did not know what it was that she felt around Childermass.  
"Have you ever wondered why you kept being led back to the same place, or why these cards are able to reveal past and future events?" He asked, each word drawn out in his usual tone, almost masking his interest in her prior answer.  
Hannah did not reply, though both were aware that her answer would be in the affirmative.  
"Magic."  
The word hung in the air long after it had left his lips, and the air felt different again too. But Hannah was too preoccupied by the thoughts that rushed through her mind: tales of the Raven King, whispers on the streets of lands long gone, mysterious roads and child snatching faeries. [1]  
Far too many questions were upon her tongue, keeping her silent until she managed, "When you were murmuring that other night-were you...?"  
There was an amused sigh at that, the meaning of Hannah was not certain, and she felt his gaze momentarily rest upon her. "Aye. A concealment spell, though it will not work yet."  
He beckoned her to the other chair, and Hannah complied. When he spoke, his voice had grown in depth but lessened in volume, and was only audible due to their close proximity. "Some people have an inclination towards magic- a sensitivity, even. You must not speak of this to anyone, understand?"  
"I understand," Her eyes were lured back down to the cards. The change in atmosphere was not simply the presence of magic, but the sense of confidence Hannah had been entrusted with. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she remarked, "They are queer cards, with the ink shewing through. I suppose that you copied these yourself?"  
"That I did, from a sailor in Whitby. He could not decipher some of the meanings, but not all, and so in exchange for copying the cards, I read his fortune."  
"Could you- " Hannah paused, before murmuring, "No, it is too forward."  
"Read your fortune?" Childermass finished, shuffling the cards. "You may not wish to know: I informed that sailor he would be dead within a year. And you know that these cards do not lie."  
"If it is unpleasant then I suppose I would prefer to remain ignorant. Would you explain them to me instead?"  
Childermass considered the proposition, before laying out the cards.  
"There are four suits: deniers, epees, swords, coupes and batons, or coins, swords, cups and wands in English," As he spoke, Childermass split the cards into groups.  
"Similar to the four suits of playing cards. Are there variants upon the king, queen, jack and ace too?"  
"Yes, there is still a king and queen, but also a valet and knight. Those are known as the minor arcana. Then there is the major arcana, which are these trump cards."  
He gestured to the remaining cards; around twenty or so, Hannah estimated. The card that she had held before caught her eye amongst the rest and she gently rested a finger upon it again.  
"What does this one mean- the one with the pair of dogs?"  
"That is la lune- the moon. If can mean that the subject is walking a narrow path between two dangers, but can refer to the occult, subconscious desires or nightmares. It is this card that you were holding when I entered?"  
"Yes," Hannah quickly brought a hand to her mouth to hide her yawn, before adding, "It is not that you bore me, quite the opposite..."  
"You will have countless long days ahead of you with spring cleaning. You ought to rest," Childermass announced, collecting himself, and Hannah gave a small smile to herself. They could have remained there all night, and she suspected that he minded this as little as she did.  
"Goodnight then, Mr Childermass," She rose and began to depart from the room."Goodnight Hannah."  
His voice made her halt in the doorway, the faint rustle of the cards just audible, before Hannah continued up the stone steps. Her mind was too alive to consider slumber, mulling over all that he had said, what had been revealed about both the cards and himself, and she found herself more intrigued than ever.

[1] Although Hannah had heard all of this, until meeting John Childermass, she had paid no interest in magic, mostly as she had no experience of it until then. Her opinion for the first seventeen years of her life was that magic had disappeared three hundred years earlier, and as it was doing nothing to provide her shelter or food, it was of little consideration.


	4. December 1806

It was Christmas Eve, and Hannah was exhausted. After her tireless preparation for the following day, the only relief that she could take was Mr Norrell was not the sort to host yuletide soirees or invite over relatives. [1] Such additional work would be a Herculean task for only a housemaid and house keeper.

Beside the abandoned peeling knife were several potatoes, and Hannah gathered them into her aching fingers and duly carried them over to the pan of boiling water. A noise was just audible over the crackle of the fire, and once the potatoes had plopped into the water she realised it was the ring of a bell.

The sound was a faint whine, but irritatingly persistent, arguably like the voice of the ringer itself. She smirked slightly at that, wiping her hands upon her apron before making her way towards the door. Ruth, the housekeeper, was unlikely to answer it, both she and Mr Norrell undoubtedly expecting Childermass. But Hannah had only seen him when she was first cleaning out the kitchen fireplace, putting on his greatcoat before venturing out into the chilly morning.

Although Hannah had not been outside all day, she suspected that the hallways were even colder than what lay beyond the stone walls. The fireplace of whichever room Mr Norrell was residing in, primarily the library, had to be kept constantly stocked with wood. It was his sensitivity to minute changes in temperature made Hannah go to the store and gather a basket of kindling. Quite why he didn't use magic to lit a fresh fire was beyond her; she sensed he would rather catch a chill than use magic for such frivolous things. The incessant ringing tolled in her head as she approached the library, coupling the slight light headedness she was prone to experiencing to produce an intense pounding.

Pushing against the door without so much as a knock, Hannah made her way around the piles of books and papers that were scattered across the carpet and carefully skirting around the armchair that her master sat in, a tome upon his lap.

Had she been had a more observant disposition at the time, she would have wondered why the strictly organised room was in such a state. But her only focus was upon relighting the fire, which was indeed Mr Norrell's requirement, and escaping from the room. She landed on her knees with slightly more force than intended, the carpet absorbing some of the shock as she deeply exhaled, one hand placed against the cool marble mantelpiece. The heath did not feel warm either as she set down fresh kindling, the old wood now blackened ashes. Evidently the bell had begun to ring once Mr Norrell's attention had been lost from a book and he realised how cold the library had grown, or seen the fire had vanished.

As the flames began to glow and heat radiate like pulsing beats through the room, Hannah gathered together her things. She was about to steal a glance at her master to check that he was still engrossed in his book when came a voice, "You have managed to secure all of the books, I trust?"

Her lips remained as still as the rest of her body. Attempting a Yorkshire accent with the depth of Childermass' would be futile, and Norrell uncovering that half his fireplace managements came from a housemaid who could get past the spell would cause far too many questions, even a dismissal. Hannah was well aware of her master's stance upon those who ought to wield magic, and a housemaid was far from such a person.

"Childermass, answer-"

"Aye, sir, the books are right here, upon the table."

Never had Hannah been so relieved to hear his voice.

She waited until there was the soft padding of footsteps upon the carpet to briefly turn her head. Stood with his back to her, examining the books was Mr Norrell, and opposite him, Childermass. Despite his casual demeanour, leant against the nearby wall edge, there was a flash of urgency in his eyes. Clutching the basket, Hannah rose. Her years upon the street served her well; her stealthy movements past the armchair and stacks of books were undetected by her master. She was about to go directly past him when Mr Norrell set down the book.

A flash of cream appeared from a pocket, and Childermass handed it to Mr Norrell. "A letter has arrived for you sir, from a Mr Segundus, I believe." [2]

Casting a tentative glance in Childermass's direction as Mr Norrell took the envelope, Hannah did not allow herself time to try and distinguish what emotion was behind his features. She slipped past the pair and out of the ajar door.

The next few hours that merged late afternoon with evening was filled with finishing the preparations for Christmas dinner, turning down the master's bed, serving him his dinner. With the time that was left, she gathered her presents for Ruth and Davey before their farewells as they left to spend Christmas with their respective families.

As she finished a couple of the mince pies that Ruth had made to tide them over Christmas Day, a bitter chill swept across her, lingering in her bones even once the back door sounded shut. She turned in her chair, gaze landing upon the frosted boots that dripped water onto the stone floor and trailing up the coated figure of Childermass.

"There's cobbler by the fire and a few mince pies too," She informed him as he hung up his greatcoat, "Stay here a moment, I will return in a moment."

Hannah hurried out of the kitchen and into the servant's quarters, the warm food and anticipation heightening her spirits. Having collected the gift from under her bed, she returned to the kitchen.

Her chair has been left half pulled out, another a little farther down the table, now resided by Childermass, who slowed his devouring of the beef casserole upon her entering. A small, rectangular item had been placed upon the table by her seat that had not been there when she had left.

Childermass made to rise when he saw what she held, but Hannah shook her head. "You finish eating, I will open my gift first."

She sat back down, placed her own gift to him upon the table, before unfolding the sheets of that day's Times newspaper. Inside lay a copy of The Tempest, with gold coloured binding. The name of the author, William Shakespeare, struck her as familiar, but it provided no information about what lay beyond the cover, and her fingers yearned to open the pages, to assimilate the words beneath candlelight.

"It is not Christmas day yet," a low voice said, that smirk of his one of amusement at her evident desire to read the text. "Can I trust you to have that on your beside untouched overnight?"

"Yes! I shall not touch it until tomorrow morn, whereupon you shall not rouse me from my reading lest I need you to define a word," She chuckled, unable to hide her pleasure at receiving the volume.

With her free hand, Hannah slide her own gift across to near where his empty plate lay. Childermass finished off the last of his mince pie before carefully unpicking the ribbon that she had bound his gift in. A fingers an down the spine of the memorandum before he opened the leather cover to reveal thick creamy pages.

"Seeing it reminded me of you, and I supposed that you might have details that you wished to record, whether for business or personal use," sensing that his pursed lips was to do with the expense of such an item, Hannah added, "Although I am giving it to somewhat early; it is for your birthday also."

"I see. Indeed, I believe I shall find it useful," Despite his low tone, Hannah knew there was gratitude in his gravelly voice. He parted his lips; perhaps to say there was no need for her to purchase him anything at all. But he did not say a word, aware that Hannah would not break the tradition she had begun, regardless of his objection to her spending her wages upon him.

"Well, I am pleased, but I must go light the fire for Mr Norrell's bedroom-thank you for earlier, I ought to add."

"You are lucky that I had just returned," Childermass's said as Hannah rose, clutching The Tempest. When she reached the first stair at the edge of the kitchen he called her name, far softer than he would usually, almost tentatively.

She turned to find he was also stood, eyes looking above the crown of her head. Glancing upwards, Hannah caught sight of a sprig of mistletoe that had appeared upon the arched doorway and recounted Davey's teasing equivocations of her and a certain man of business spending Christmas Day near alone when she had given him his present of chocolates. She had been so lost in thought that she had not registered the approaching footsteps until he was stood before her.

With nothing to lean on, Childermass upright posture gave her the impression of him being slightly uncertain. A smile blossomed upon her lips and she felt it spreading to her cheeks.

"I do not wish to become an old maid, if we are to believe such superstitions [3]," Hannah said.

He nodded, and in a single motion leant forward, bowing his head so that his calloused lips pressed against her cheek. Lengths of ragged hair brushed against her skin and she inhaled the musky scent of hay and mincemeat that clung to him, even if only for the briefest of moments. Within a heartbeat he had withdrawn, the lack of light shadowing his features, though she caught the slight quirk of his lips.

"Go-it will not do to keep Mr Norrell waiting," Childermass murmured, and Hannah gave a curt nod.

Slipping the volume into her apron, her footsteps bounded upon the stairs, almost in time with the racing of her heart.

[1] Even the unused guest rooms had to be tidied and bedsheets changed, lest some distant relative of Mr Norrell's took it upon themselves to visit.

[2] Hannah would later discover that Childermass had been correct in his suspicions, recognising the name some three weeks later when a Mr Segundus and Honeyfoot came to Hurtfew Abbey.

[3] It was believed that if a woman refused to be kissed under the mistletoe then she would not get any marriage proposals in the new year and may even end up unmarried.


End file.
